


he who is no longer like god

by misszuipperips



Category: Supernatural
Genre: End Verse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:49:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misszuipperips/pseuds/misszuipperips
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 2014, and Michael is not the Viceroy of Heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he who is no longer like god

The year is 2014, and Michael is  _not_  the Viceroy of Heaven.

                  —There isn’t a Heaven to be Viceroy of, nowadays. It was closed off, locked away and out of reach to those who still tried to fly there on wings that were slowly crumbling to ash. Michael learned that the hard way; he had tried desperately to fly there with wings that burned as his Grace withered without the Heavenly Host to support it.

                 **(** He smells constantly of smoke and ash, not that there was anyone left to notice. **)**

  One day, his Grace finally gave out and Michael was left to pant on the ground as all that made him an archangel was ripped away from him. He curls up and cries for an hour, and then he pushes himself up and continues walking. He’s not sure where he’s walking without his Grace to alert him of his location, but he has to constantly take new routes to avoid the infected. He keeps wandering in one direction, doggedly pursuing the final destination until his (now human) legs gave out beneath him and he was forced to halt for a while.

         **(** He thinks he might be heading towards Detroit, but he’s not sure why. **)**

He finds it harder to walk as far as he used to with each passing day, and it does not ease up even when he steals food and water to sustain himself. He thinks nothing of it— humans were weak creatures; he should not be surprised that his new body was failing him.

He did not stop walking, even though he started to get headaches that made him want to curl up on the ground and block out the world.

       He stopped hiding quite as well as he used to when he heard the screams of someone being found by the hordes of infected.

              **(** He started coughing one day, but he passed it off as simply catching a human illness. **)**

  He realised that he was searching for his siblings— without his Grace to call for them, he was instinctively trying to find them to protect them in whatever way he could. He almost laughed at that, if laughing didn’t bring on a fit of coughing.

                                   —He wanted to shelter the family that had slowly abandoned him, one at a time and then all at once. Michael had never known how to stop caring about the other angels, even when they made it clear they did not want him near them.

                   **(** He wanted to wrap his wings around himself, but his wings were nothing but a pile of ash and scorch marks on the floor of a church in an unknown city. **)**

  It took Michael an hour to summon the strength to make his human body stand up to shuffle in the direction he’d been walking in for weeks (or perhaps months; Michael did not keep track of how many days had passed since he started walking). When he fell over, he lay there until his rattling breath calmed enough for him to get back to a standing position. It took him a few more minutes before he could begin shuffling (for he could not describe the slowness with which he moved as ‘walking’), and even then it hurt enough for Michael to wince with each step.

       He still did not stop moving towards his unknown destination.

Michael was nowhere near a city when he fell to his knees; there were no buildings nearby for him to hide in as he slowly crawled further towards his goal. There was no one to help him when he collapsed on the ground, and there was no sign of God when Michael dug his hands into the ground and forcibly pulled himself along.

            It did not reveal itself to be a nightmare as Michael began coughing, nor did his brothers or sisters find him as he started to cough up blood.

  Michael coughed and spat out more blood, still desperately trying to drag himself towards the goal of finding his family and protecting them from the world that had so cruelly turned its back on Heaven.

     He did not stop inching along the ground until his body shut down; his hands did not relax from the iron grip they had on the ground until his breath stopped. The coughing did not stop until his body shuddered and Michael faded from existence.

There was no heavenly chorus to usher Michael off the mortal coil; there was no one to even notice that he was dead. His corpse lay in the middle of nowhere, miles from any cities and with no grave for him to lay in. No angels wept, for they did not know that his body was rotting away somewhere in America. The world kept turning, and no one felt a single pang of melancholy over the mere idea that Michael did not exist any longer.

                                                   The Apocalypse did not end with a bang or a whimper; it ended with a  **cough**.


End file.
